


Fighting Gravity

by combee



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crimes & Criminals, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Law Enforcement, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-07-12 23:04:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7127056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/combee/pseuds/combee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lipton was not obsessed, he was plagued with remorse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Apogee

**Author's Note:**

> I've started here a second story inspired by darling @carvvoodlipton over on tumblr. Detective Lipton and criminal Speirs had been her awesome proposal, and I'm very thankful for the granted opportunity and her encouragements! Tags are, more or less, in regards for future chapters, they'll be updated as necessary. This could get quite lengthy. /[Title influence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bPbN3-thQIM)/

It had been nearly a year since Renee's untimely death in the line of duty. She was a newcomer, a young woman with a promising future and a heart of gold. Fresh out of the academy with the morals of a saint, she strove to be one of the positive changes she hoped to see unfold within the city. 

Lipton trained with her, helped her to become the best that she could be. Requiring little guidance, she was sure of herself. Trusted her instinct, and also put her trust in Lipton. They quickly grew into an efficient, well balanced duo.

Perhaps if they had gone a day earlier.

Their strategy was solid. The plan was simple, the risk as minimal as it could possibly be. After months of tracking and compiling evidence, it all pointed in the same direction. It was supposed to be a routine sweep of the suspects' residence, purpose to collect further information to build up their profile. They had been nearing their ultimate target, justice damn near tangible. 

Maybe if he had stepped into the study first.

Lipton shut his eyes against the sunset light blinding through his windshield, the colours washing a brilliant shade of amber. He sat in his parked car at the edge of the peaceful street, desperately trying to think of something else. Anything else. His fists tightened around the steering wheel restlessly, white knuckle. 

It _has_ been nearly a year, he confirmed with himself. Almost to the date. 

The case was left gaping open. There had been a devastating explosion that rendered Renee hospitalized until her body surrendered eight days later. She was a fighter up until her last breath. Lipton had remained by her side despite his intense injuries, he would recover. On the flip side, he understood Renee's odds, and the doctors never sugar-coated anything. At best she would live; most senses failed, bed-ridden, third degree burns covered her near entirely. 

This sort of tragedy was not supposed to befall an angel like Renee. 

Lipton allowed a weary sigh to escape him, tracing the tips of his fingers across the offending scar flawed into his cheek. He felt his heart begin to sink. As if just burned, he abruptly brought his hand down and pulled his keys from the ignition. The radio continued to play. 

Reaching over his dash he retrieved his wallet, sliding out some change for coffee and briefly eyed the two photographs he kept hidden inside. 

There was one of Renee among a few others from their department, taken after their first official case together had come to a close. Renee appeared shy, but had a content grin across her features. Lipton and the others had offered to take her out for a few drinks after a job well done. It was a warm, well deserved welcome. He remembers her mother calling to ask about her well-being, Renee's mother was so proud of her. So was Lipton. 

He could no longer remember who captured the photo. 

The other photograph was meager, but so far it had been the only image found of the man alleged to have rigged the explosives. He was the only remaining suspect, the fundamental evidence lead directly to him. A man with a grand history of thefts, arsonism, suspected first degree murder, the list continues. Yet nothing at this point had been justified. It is quite impressive from a criminal perspective, howbeit the last four years he had all but vanished off the radar until Renee was killed.

This man had done one hell of a job dissolving into the shadows.

Lipton held onto his photo so he could never forget. The opaque gaze was unsettling, unfamiliar. Truth was though, his face was etched into his memory. He sought out both of their faces in the crowds, while stopped at red lights or while he would fetch groceries at the store. Endlessly seeking.

Lipton was not obsessed, he was plagued with remorse. 

He tucked both photographs back into his wallet, waiting for _Jealous_ to come to a close over the radio.

Currently visiting Chincoteague Island, Virginia's seaboard was meant to be a get away, of sorts. Lipton had spent his first night in a motel, actively trying to avoid mulling over his case files. Known for its glorious beaches, wildlife, and serene atmosphere, he needed to give Chincoteague a chance; allow himself to embrace the seaside. Not only was his time away long over due, he knew at least a few days to breathe clearly again was essential. 

Well, maybe more than a few. When he returns to New York, he planned to pay Renee's mother a visit. 

Lipton stepped out of his vehicle, inhaling the sea salt breeze. At a leisure pace he made his way to the coffee shop across the street. 

Upon entering, the front door chimed a soft radiant sound. There was a young couple together by the window sharing a slice of pie, blissful laughter carried through the shop at times. There was also a man ordering at the counter in front of him. He kept his voice low as he ordered a black coffee. 

Lipton idly observed as the cashier prepared the cup, looking up at the man with a marker in his hand then asking his name for the order. 

There was momentary silence. 

Glancing to his side, Lipton regarded the man with increasing interest. His posture was authoritative, he wore a thick navy sweater, plain jeans and comfortable well-worn looking shoes. He smelt faintly of cigarette smoke and his dark hair was hanging carelessly over his brow. 

Lipton bit back an audible sneer at his own paranoia when the man leaned towards the cashier, telling him that his name was _'Ron'._

How many men carrying the name Ron existed? Very many. This cannot be his man. Chincoteague Island was fairly secluded, a minimal population, and more than five hours away from New York. Hell, one of the first acquaintances Lipton made in the NYPD had been a gent named Ron. 

_This was not his Ron._

He heard the man offer a firm thank you before accepting his cup of coffee, then he found a corner seat by the window. 

"What may I get for you, sir?"

Lipton startled, clearing his throat while the cashier patiently waited.

"Large black coffee, please."

The cashier offered him a lopsided smirk, his name tag read 'George' in faded gold lettering. 

Lipton caught himself holding in a breath. The yellow-tinted lighting of the coffee shop was beginning to unsettle him; threatening somehow. He felt ridiculous just considering it, the old lights had no correlation with his sudden discomfort. 

He stole a glance over his shoulder, the man was pulling out a cigarette and placing it between his lips. He kept his face aligned profile; Lipton was unable to catch a confirming glimpse. 

He turned back around and gave the cashier his name, like Ron had. By the time his gaze roamed back over to the window, the man was already strolling through the front door, the flame of his lighter illuminated as he casually took seat at a bench outside of the coffee shop. 

"There you are, sir. Enjoy your night!" George was holding out his coffee, a wide grin. 

"Thank you," Lipton forced a smile in return.

He felt his heartbeat begin to rise as approached the exit. The couple eating pie were not laughing anymore, the young man was holding her hand, they both appeared distraught. The atmosphere had shifted so abruptly. 

The front door was caught by a heavy gust of wind as Lipton walked through the threshold, chimes danced in the turbulence. The bench was no longer occupied, a finished cigarette still burning on the sidewalk. 

Lipton peered down the street, the spectacular sunset was quickly dissipating. Streetlights were beginning to flicker to life, there was no one around. 

He walked across the street as calm as he could manage, one hand bringing his hot coffee to lips, the other settled in his pocket already holding his car key. The wind picked up again.

His hands remained steady as he unlocked his door, though he didn't hear the intruder from behind as he swung the driver's door open. The hinges creaked and masked the footsteps perfectly. 

He stood no chance of reaching his sidearm before he felt the dead metal press against his throat. An ominous presence surrounded him, the smell of smoke returning. Lipton couldn't hear the other man breathing, couldn't see his shadow in the ill lighting. He didn't need to. The blade remained so steady against his throat it felt like a piece of him, something that had always existed. 

There was no one else, just his rapid heartbeat and the cool salty breeze. Lipton let his eyes fall closed when he finally heard the other man whisper to him.

"Look at me."

It wasn't a request. 

He lost the upper hand. Hell, maybe he never had it. Lipton wasn't certain at all. 

Heart caught in his throat, suddenly he didn't want to look into the man's eyes anymore. He didn't know what he would find there. All this time he believed he knew; that one day he would look into the eyes of the person responsible for Renee's death, the pain her loss caused for everyone around her. How she suffered. 

He would look into those eyes so no one else would ever have to. 

Lipton took a half step backwards onto the curb, leveling their height, carefully beginning to turn around. 

He needed that blade, he had to seize control. 

He didn't look into his eyes at first. He studied the hand enclosing the blade to his throat. It was confident, demanding, experienced. Lipton's eyes followed up through his arm; well defined beneath the thick fabric clinging tightly to his body. He hesitated on the exposed skin of the man's neck, on his relaxed jaw, a day or two left unshaven. He imagined the pulse and heat he couldn't feel. 

The man was calm as ice, not even the slightest waver. 

There was no room for errors, not now. Not after all this time. 

When he found himself completely turned around, face to face, he finally met with the man's stoic gaze. His dark eyes absolutely unreadable. _Familiar._ Lipton exhaled as steadily as he could against the severe metal. 

This is not how he imagined his first encounter with Ronald Speirs to go down.


	2. Wasted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **Graphic Depictions of Violence** warning applies for this chapter.

Under knife point and a scrutinizing gaze, Lipton never broke eye contact. 

He wanted to, Christ did he want to. He maintained his control, focusing on Speirs. One wrong move or a let down of guard; he waited for consent. 

This wasn't arbitrary. All this time spent tediously smoking out, and Speirs now assures his presence be known. He knew what face to look for. 

"Weapons?" he disrupted their silence for a second time. 

Lipton chose not to react, not until Speirs took a step back, giving him enough room to maneuver. His blade still poised at the ready. He then placed his coffee on the roof of his car. All of this because he decided to grab a coffee. A mediocre cup of coffee. He wasn't equipped. The lone purpose of him being in Chincoteague was an opportunity to unwind. Hell, if anyone realized how much work he smuggled with him for this personal trip— the damn irony of it all now. 

His sidearm lay entirely useless in his dash. As he predicted; he stood no chance of reaching it. 

Repressed guilt and anger is what he possessed. That would have to suffice. 

When Lipton had made no move to surrender a weapon, Speirs abruptly lowered his. He reached out to unzip Lipton's leather jacket, searching the pockets inside. Nothing. He untucked Lipton's blouse, feeling around his waist for where a sidearm may be holstered. There wasn't one. 

To his surprise, Speirs then disengaged to an arms length away, taking Lipton's wallet with him. He still had the knife in his right hand. 

Lipton observed the man's face, not his own wallet. He knew what was in his wallet, he didn't know what to anticipate from Speirs. His expression portrayed nothing. He was vacant. 

His heart pounded, this mute calm sickening. He was vengeful. Caged. 

_Just wait._

He glanced down to the knife in his hand again, there was no reflection. No engravings. Speirs was searching through his ID's, eyes reading quickly. 

"Carwood Lipton." It was more of a sigh than a voice as Lipton's name travelled off his tongue. 

Lipton watched as he swept the tips of his fingers over his photographs. Speirs paused on one of the two briefly, nothing more. No furrow of his brow, no grimace. He didn't even look up. Lipton knew which photo caused the man to lapse.

Nothing about this was certain. The street remained desolate, the sun had gone down. The cafe would be closing soon, the occupants leaving for the night. Then they wouldn't be alone anymore. He needed to be quick, his emotions were flooding his judgment. He'd waited and endured long enough. They stood in the somber distance between a bakery and a craft shop. 

Though one thing was for sure; this was now or never. 

This had to be his moment.

In one fleeting advance, he took hold of Speirs by the arm while his fist collided with his jaw. He didn't hold back. He heard the sound of coins falling to concrete first, he felt the man's wrist go rigid under his grip. 

The impact from Lipton's blow swayed him on his feet, but Speirs never let go of his weapon. 

He recovered in an instant, grasping Lipton buy the collar of his shirt. Speirs then hauled him around, and swift as wind the knife was at his throat once more. 

He was being edged into the alley.

Even in the darkness, Lipton could see blood was beginning to stain a corner of Speirs' mouth.

_Not nearly enough._

Lipton ducked down. The blade pressed to his throat leaving a jagged wound in the action. He struck Speirs across his face again. He finally witnessed rage flash across his features. 

Again.

Speirs endured and barely staggered. 

_What the hell is he doing?_

In one agile motion Speirs lowered his stance and whirled around, a kick that would sweep Lipton from his stand. 

He felt his entire world go top-side, the impact from his back crashing into the ground winded him. Speirs followed him down, his forearm a crushing pressure onto his throat, pinning him instantly. 

Lipton tried to break lose, without breath his lungs began to ache. Heart panicking. How long could he last?

"Carwood," Speirs leaned into him, his voice quiet; reprimanding this time. He felt the other man's blood drip onto his cheek. 

_This is wrong. All wrong._

When Lipton pulled his left hand free, Speirs hadn't been quick enough to block his fingers from twisting around his throat. 

He didn't recede at first. Speirs held fast against Lipton until his lost breath soon made him unsteady, eyelids beginning to flutter. He let go of his knife. He removed his arm from Lipton's neck, grabbing at his suffocating hold from beneath him instead.

_How long could he last?_

The knife pressed negligently between them. 

Lipton held his position until the man was fighting just to breathe before he shoved him to the side, climbing over.

Another blow across Speirs' face, and this time he didn't withstand. He licked his bloodied lips once and blinked his weary eyes instead. 

Lipton never would have anticipated this. He expected more from him. He demanded more. This only fueled his anger. He captured Speirs by his shoulders, he shook him. 

"Fight back you piece of shit!" spitting, jaw tensed. 

Lipton crowded the space between them, struggling to regain a steady breath. He could feel Speirs' ragged gasps against his cheek. Teeth clenched together and his face contorted with pain, Speirs was doing nothing to defend himself.

"It'd be wasted on you," his words were harsh, uneven. 

Lipton forced more of his weight down against him, that wasn't an answer he wanted to hear.

Speirs hissed. "I didn't kill her."

 _What was that tone in his voice?_

Speirs began to cough. Lightly at first, then beginning to choke. Lipton idly watched him spit blood to his side.

"You didn't kill her," he scoffed. _What the hell is going on?_ He was livid. "Why the hell would I believe that?" 

He hadn't noticed the warm dampness between them until this moment.

"I know who you are," Speirs looked him in the eye then, the urgency in his voice made clear. Direct. "I'm being framed."

Lipton stared at him. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. He stared at him until Speirs shut his eyes, tilting his head back. A pained moan escaped him. His hand reaching between them, grasping for something. Still angled down, Lipton felt his blood pool at the end of his chin; watched absently as it fell onto Speirs' sweater. 

He needed to clear his head. 

Lipton let go of his shoulders, slowly he began to lean back. A thought crossed his mind that this was just a ruse. It must be. _Don't be so quick._ The moment Lipton would let his guard down Speirs would eliminate him as his threat, go back to hiding. 

That never happened. 

Instead, a cool breeze passed between them. Lipton grabbed a fistful of his saturated blouse, the wetness around his stomach sent a chill through him.

This wasn't his blood.

When he looked back to Speirs beneath him, he was tossing his knife to the sidewalk. His other hand clutched desperately at his stomach. Blood was escaping from between this fingers. 

"I didn't kill her" Speirs repeated, forcing his heavy gaze back to Lipton's.

He wanted to vomit, not over the familiar sight, the feeling. His thoughts scattered, trying to make the connections. 

"Then what the fuck was all this for, huh?" Lipton needed to yell. More than just yell. He bit down his urge to suffocate him again. "Sneakin' up behind a guy, thrusting a knife to his throat? And you knew, all along!" 

_Carwood, you threw the first punch._

He could hear his elevated heart beat mix with Speirs' attempts to clear his throat, straining to breathe. 

This could have been avoided. _Don't fucking feel guilty._ Speirs was far from innocent. It all finished as quick as it began. 

This can't be. 

He didn't get up yet, but Lipton shifted his weight away from his middle. He moved Speirs' hand to his side, pressing his own against the stab wound in it's place. Adrenaline still flooded his veins. 

How caustic was this entire scenario— one careless misstep, moments of overwhelming rage. 

He was confused, shocked again. Whether his words were true or last minute desperation, he couldn't understand.

_He's still your only suspect._

Speirs let out a rough sigh when Lipton moved off of him to crouch at his side. The blood flow needed to be stopped, but he refused Lipton's hand. Speirs grabbed his shoulder to haul himself up to sit instead.

He let him.

Then he backed off; Speirs won't be going anywhere. Not alone, anyway.

"How else could you have reacted?" Speirs asked, he didn't make eye contact.

Lipton remained quiet. He propped himself up against the red brick wall of the bakery, removing his jacket, taking in heavy breaths. He eyed the loose contents of his wallet scattered on the ground, small change mostly. There was also the knife amidst. Idly he traced the laceration across the side of his neck, deciding he would need stitches. It wasn't a severe matter, but it would leave him with another distasteful scar. 

Speirs continued, voice blunt. "You asked what all this was for. If I'd have approached any other way, would the outcome have been much different?"

 _No,_ he almost said. Lipton didn't want to admit it. This man before him held an utterly revolting place in his heart, for so long. He's never felt so torn. Lipton shut his eyes, mulling over his next possible course of action. 

_Screw this._

He took a step towards Speirs, hand extended out for him. "I'm not letting you out of my sight, we need to get you fixed up."

Speirs didn't speak anymore, he handed Lipton his wallet before accepting his hand. On impulse Lipton slung his arm around his waist for support, to which he resentfully accepted. He lead him to his car. 

He shut the passenger door behind Speirs, then grabbed his lukewarm coffee. He disregarded his change but picked up the knife, wiping the blood away against his now tarnished blouse. Lipton paused to take a last glance at the sidewalk. 

_Are you really going to do this?_

Lipton rounded the hood of his car, sliding in the driver's side. They must be quick. He considered his pistol and cuffs in his dash, laying in wait just in front of Speirs. He considered who he should call to inform of his current situation. Opting for none, Lipton took a sip from his drab cup of coffee before placing it in the cup holder. He discarded Speirs' knife and his jacket to the floor of the backseats. Irritably he searched his pockets for his keys, realizing his hands were now beginning to shake, his breaths still heavy. 

_There's no going back from this._

When the engine turned over, Lipton leaned back in his seat. The time read 9:57pm; he'd left his motel room around 9:20pm, parked his car at 9:35pm. The coffee shop would be just closing up now. Looking out the window he saw the couple from earlier exit across the street, hand in hand. 

_No one has any idea._

He lowered the radio volume, peering over towards Speirs. 

He was sitting up straight, though he leaned into the passenger door. Arm still draped across his stomach, his breathing appeared more relaxed than moments ago. Speirs paid him no mind, staring through the window. Void of expression. 

He didn't know what to say; what to ask. Not yet. Part of him felt this was the beginning to their end. Speirs may have gone from his only suspect, to his last hope. 

When he sensed Lipton's eyes on him, Speirs gradually turned to face him, "no hospitals."

"No hospitals," Lipton agreed.

* 

The evening drive to Lipton's motel room was made in relative silence, aside from the static hum of the radio. It wasn't a far ride, but it seemed to drag tirelessly.

Upon passing a modest police station he considered the various consequences of his actions. It filled him with dread. He tried not to dwell too restless over Speirs, or what the hell he was getting himself into. There would be plenty of time for that.

His mind wandered to memories of Renee once again, what she would think of him right now. Lipton was more than aware of the state of guilt he had been living in. The frustration, the anger. He knew it was far from healthy, but he couldn't shake it. He didn't know how. He believed Speirs would be the only source for any sense of closure. That after he was brought to justice, those who held Renee dear in their hearts would be granted an opening to heal. 

Speirs may still be able to provide that.

It pained him to acknowledge that all this time had been spent in vain.

From the road ahead he glanced down a moment; his hand ached. Knuckles raw, drying blood between his fingers. His breath caught it in throat. _What the fuck where you thinking?_ This wasn't him, this isn't who he needed to be. 

With a slight tilt of his head he eyed Speirs tentatively, attempting to void the pang of regret in his gut. Speirs hadn't moved. Jaw clenched, he could see the distinct glimmer of sweat against his brow. 

"Here," Lipton reached into the backseat to retrieve his discarded jacket, tossing it towards Speirs. It landed on his lap. 

He looked between Speirs and the road, noticing how Speirs held out his leather jacket while examining his own sleeves of his sweater. He folded his arm back down to cover his wound, placing Lipton's jacket over top of himself. Then he settled back down in his seat. 

"I'll try not to get blood on your leather," he said impassively. 

If this were any other circumstance, Lipton may have chuckled. 

He returned his focus to the road, another minute or two and they'd arrive at the motel.


	3. Adrift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A Fair Warning:** Suturing (self and otherwise), description of injuries and blood are common throughout this chapter.

"Don't move," Lipton ordered, cutting the engine. As he pocketed his keys and wallet his eyes remained on Speirs; gaze still fixed onto some unknown point through the window. Perhaps nothing at all in particular. 

The rage he experienced not long ago still antagonized him as if it were reduced down to a simmer, threatening to boil like it had been intended to. 

Lipton stepped out of his car. The parking lot was faintly lit save for the motel's neon vacancy sign. With the vibrant hue casting void shadows in all corners of the lot, he had a challenging time noting his surroundings. Not much time had lapsed since he first left, the same two cars which were parked earlier remained in their spots. The illuminated convenient store across the street made the windows appear like a painting against the blackness. 

There were places to run, and places to hide. Areas Lipton was far from familiar with.

As he reached for the passenger handle, the door slid open and Speirs was beginning to shift in his seat, opting to get out. Lipton allowed him enough space to stand up, examining his darkened sweater as Speirs slung his jacket over his shoulder. 

Their eyes met for a brief moment. 

In all of Lipton's years, countless exchanges between suspects and victims, identifying what may be beyond peoples' words was essential. Learning to understand that what may be left unsaid can still be seen plain as day is someones eyes. In their demeanor, how they carry themselves. How their expressions sway. 

In that moment when Speirs shut the passenger door and stood up straight, hand lingering over his wound and their stance leveled, Lipton felt entirely lost.

Their heights matched, Lipton acknowledged, placing a hand firmly on the small of Speirs' back to lead him to his room. He didn't feel comfortable in such proximity, but there were too many variables. The neon violet light washed out the early bruising on his features, for the most part. If only ridding ones' self of injury were so easy. 

Lipton didn't look at him for more than that brief moment, but that had been enough. The overwhelming disorientation he felt by just one glimpse into the man's eyes unsettled him. He shouldn't feel so vulnerable, he knew. Not while Speirs' appeared to be trying his damnedest to not use Lipton for stability. Not while every inhale of breath was being made so carefully. Nor while Lipton could feel the effort in every step Speirs took from where his hand rest against the man's back. 

Speirs was different than others before him; it was personal on an obscure level. This cut clean to the heart. 

Lipton shifted his hand to a firm grip over the man's wrist while he unlocked his door. Speirs leaned himself up against the wooden panels of the motel, setting off the motion sensing light over head. He watched a small moth flutter aimlessly towards the glow. Speirs was remarkably calm despite the situation, and Lipton found himself wondering how long such a mask took to create. 

None too kindly, Lipton gave a sharp tug to Speirs' arm to haul him inside while the front door swung open. He offered no guidance this time, he simply followed. Part of him anticipated a strike in the dark —during the time it took to reach the lamp on the desk. That Speirs was waiting for a precise time to turn on him. There was also an embitter part of him that craved him to. 

Not that it happened then. 

Speirs made no move to sit on the sofa, the bed, or the chair that Lipton left partially backed out from the desk. Speirs' eyes roamed over him, calculating his actions and movements, but he made none of his own.

"You aught to get showered up," Lipton said right away, sitting himself against the desk. "I'll find you a shirt, and there's a few clean face towels in the cabinet above the sink. Bring some out with you when you're done."

As a response Speirs handed back his jacket. Perhaps he didn't know what to say; he made his way to the restroom without a word or a second glance.

"Keep that door unlocked," Lipton ordered. 

He waited a few minutes after Speirs left the door slightly ajar; until the shower ran and he heard the spray transition as Speirs stepped beneath it. 

Lipton stood up then, pacing the dim room. Hushed profanities escaped his lips as he considered all the possible ways this situation could play out. Not much worse, he figured. Speirs' injury was bad, though he didn't seem on the verge of bleeding out. It needed to be tended to, quickly, kept clean and allowed time to heal. His face was a different story, one he wouldn't be able to simply hide beneath some clothing. He would have to see to it himself, but ultimately Speirs holds the greatest judgment over his body. 

_Don't panic._

Lipton continued shoving his guilt to the side and then he paused in front of the desk. He leaned towards the mirror there, examining the ragged incision across the left side of his neck. The blood flow had ceased, though between his exposed flesh and blood trails turning dark as they had dried, it looked like a gaping mouth. Mocking, perhaps. It appeared worse than it felt.

Speirs was the most pressing matter; he could take care of himself after.

He toyed with his car keys some, internally debating how necessary his gun or handcuffs could be. The restroom had no windows, it was a small and confined space. Room enough for one. Lipton looked around his quarters, knowing full well Speirs will have to spend the night here. Not that he knew what would be best to do with him. He expected neither of them to be getting much sleep, but dozing off was a possibility. They both required rest. Should rest actually come to him, he needed some peace of mind that Speirs would not be able to sneak away throughout the night. The rest room was no holding cell in any sense, though there appeared to be one suitable structure to restrain a man to that wasn't easily maneuverable. 

Lipton knew it would come down to that as he ducked out from the room to his car, retrieving Speirs' knife from the back seat, his gun, handcuffs and a small aid kit from the dash. He locked up afterwards. When he returned inside he disposed of his essentials to the bottom drawer of the desk and tossed the aid kit onto the sofa. 

He shut the curtains over the window as neatly as they could possibly be, though the thin fabric still allowed for some of that lambent violet to seep past. 

His jaw clenched; fists followed. Lipton's actions and mind felt foreign to him, there was no confidence or clarity anymore. All what has lead him to believe that Speirs was the man responsible became a haze after a few words, combined with a lack of action on his part himself. Speirs may be inconceivable for now, but certainly he won't be useless. 

Lipton longed for answers, the ability to remain steady and unbiased when he gets them. He _will_ get them. 

At the sound of the shower being turned off, Lipton grabbed for his duffle bag on the bed and began to rifle through some of his clothing. He pulled out the only sweater he had brought with him and hung it over the back of the chair; a chestnut brown turtle neck. 

It was grim irony, he mused. 

Speirs exited the rest room; hair towel-dried, shirtless, with his jeans zipped up yet left unbuttoned. He held his stained sweater in one hand, some clean face towels in the other. Lipton could see the stab wound quite well now, not too far below his rib cage. He couldn't estimate how deep it was. So soon after being washed clear, a small amount of blood found its way down Speirs' stomach. It had slowed adequately, at least.

Before making his way to the sofa where Speirs had sat, Lipton grabbed a newly opened bottle of whiskey from his duffle. He took a savor, then offered it to Speirs. Lipton sat down next to him, examining the contents of his aid kit. He removed a small needle, some nylon thread, a forcep, scissors, and a latex glove. With the minuscule kit itself having been contained in plastic, Lipton set it down between himself and Speirs to fill the shallow lid with disinfectant, placing the necessary tools so they were entirely submerged. 

Lipton rose up, still holding onto the bottle of disinfectant. Speirs was taking an intensive drink of the whiskey, swallowing hard, before inclining his head to the side and inspecting the makeshift suture kit. 

"Are you going to? Or am I?" Speirs asked. 

He sounded impassive, tired. There hadn't been a moment until now where Lipton had intended to have Speirs simply stitch himself up. He could. It would spare him the hassle and he could move on to his own injury. Though the throbbing sensation in his neck was more or less background noise in his mind at this time, not entirely demanding. He couldn't find it in him to care.

"Just sit tight for a minute," Lipton said, observing Speirs take another hearty sip. He didn't nod, his acknowledgement was a fraction of a forced grin. Lipton took a guess that he'd have received the displeased gesture regardless of his answer.

He needed to scrub his hands, dried blood still stained his palms and knuckles. Lipton walked away, bringing the disinfectant with him. He kept the hot water running low so he could hear into the next room; nothing but the distinct slosh of liquor in a glass bottle being moved around. Not even a creak from the sofa. 

He didn't trust Speirs; this was something else. Speirs holds some knowledge of the case, seemingly well enough beyond what any news segment may have once said last year. The line dividing him was most uncertain at this point, and Lipton hated believing that he may have to rely on Speirs in any way.

He grabbed a generous palm of soap and scrubbed the appalling state of his hands as thoroughly as he could. The rest room lighting was terribly unfavorable, as if it brought out the worst. Every crease of exhaustion, the redness beginning to saturate his eyes, the scar along his cheek highly contrasted. His lips were dry, cracked in many areas. He looked more pale than ever. The subdued fluorescence made him seem ill in every sense of the term.

For a moment Lipton wondered what Speirs saw in his reflection, if he looked into the mirror at all prior to him.

He shut off the water, then quickly doused his hands with the disinfectant over the sink before returning to the main room.

As he approached from behind, Speirs remained as he left him. There was a nag in Lipton's gut that wasn't relieved by this. What was occurring didn't register in his mind right away as the side of Speirs' face came into view. Lipton thought he heard him sign, it was scarcely audible. He watched his bare shoulders slump ever so slightly while Speirs pressed his head back into the sofa. The motion was chased by a slow raise of his arm; he held out the delicate needle and the gleam caught Lipton's eyes. The tips of his fingers were reddened. 

When Lipton rounded the sofa he gauged the display before him; Speirs had begun to suture his wound shut.

It was only the first stitch, the part Lipton apprehended executing the most. He moved to crouch on the carpet in front of Speirs, gloving his right hand on the way down. He held out his other and awaited for Speirs to entrust him with the needle. 

"You're impatient," Lipton couldn't think of anything else to say.

Speirs offered out the needle, his words hushed. "Just want to get this over with," he explained. 

The feeling was mutual. 

Lipton knelt down in the space between Speirs legs, cautious not to tug on the thread while he situated himself. The lamp light was effective in bringing the severity of the injury to view, along with sporadic scarring against Speirs' torso. None of which appeared recent. Some minor, some looked like they must have been far worse than what he was currently afflicted by, once upon a time ago. 

Speirs wiped the blood from his fingers against his jeans before Lipton leaned forward, his knees already against the base of the sofa. He couldn't get himself any closer. He set his right elbow on Speirs' thigh for support; to help keep his hand steady as he placed gloved fingers to the area surrounding the wound. He neglected use of the forcep as Speirs had, continuing where he had left off. 

After the first initial pierce of skin, Lipton began to slowly ease into the task at hand. This was far from his first time suturing a stab wound, though he's never had to do such a thing under these circumstances. He was tense, yes. It wasn't the blood, the premise of the injury itself, or the precision required. It was how casual it felt, of all things. How Speirs was handling himself; how he was reacting to Lipton as if this were just a regular day.

Speirs appeared stable, but it didn't take long before his body started to betray him. Lipton could feel it only now after he raised the needle and thread to complete the second stitch. Beneath the pressure of his finger tips around the wound he felt Speirs relax. Breathe. They weren't regular. His arm settled over the armrest; steady for the most part, but Lipton noticed his thumb twitch. Then his index finger. He's been out from the shower long enough now that any gleam against his skin was perspiration, not remaining water. 

"In which moment did you realize?" Speirs asked. He indulged himself in a drink before Lipton threaded the needle through his skin again. 

"Not until you approached me," he admitted, Lipton sensed his eyes on him. He didn't pause to meet them yet. Speirs was heating up beneath him and his stab wound was determined to bleed further. The situation was fucked enough, he prayed the medical knowledge he possessed would be enough. "You kept your face well hidden from view."

Lipton heard a rough moan, it was very quiet though. Probably not intended for him to overhear.

"Chincoteague isn't exactly a stone's throw away from New York," Speirs stated, his thumb twitched once more. 

"It's not."

Lipton didn't mind him speaking, perhaps out of sheer morbid curiosity. Speirs was likely thirsty for a distraction. It didn't matter really, any new information would suit him.

"What brings you down here?"

A few more stitches were necessary, Lipton completed another before lifting his gaze up. The damage along Speirs' features was starting to look like hell. "Call it a vacation," Lipton replied, then he refocused on his task. "You?"

"I live here," Speirs revealed. He didn't wait for a lapse in his doctoring to drink this time. 

Lipton carried on through a few stitches, but those words cut into him. His heart rate elevated. 

Speirs shifted his leg slightly before Lipton could make a final suture, the motion dividing his hand from the wound. He waited, keeping his gaze fixed on one particular stream of blood until it trailed down to the trim of Speirs' underwear peeking just above his jeans. Lipton then reached for one of the face towels and held it below the puncture. When he looked up for answers Speirs had his jaw seized, head angled back. His leg jerked involuntarily once more, only steadying once pressed against Lipton's side. 

He tossed the cloth away. Freeing his hand to snap his gloved fingers by Speirs' face, it took a moment to gain his attention. 

"Hey!" Lipton startled, voice raised. He watched Speirs drop his gaze back to him heavily. "Stitching you up here is one thing, but I'm this close to draggin' your ass to emergency."

"And tell them what?"

"That doesn't matter," Lipton just needed to wash his blood from his hands. "What matters right now is you staying still so I can finish fixing you up, or you're going to the hospital."

"I'm fine," Speirs claimed firmly. 

"You're not looking it." 

Lipton had a few ideas as to why Speirs would refuse emergency care. Something was at stake, and he wasn't certain what that may be anymore. Their reality keeps changing. Lipton cared little over what Speirs would be risking, and with the degree of Speirs' current state increasing, he was beginning to care less over his own. 

Speirs sighed, urging his body to cooperate. "I'll be fine."

Lipton moved himself to his former position between Speirs' legs, despising the fact he was putting any faith in the man's words. Speirs was in pain, restless, and no doubt exhausted, but that didn't amount to his mortality being in the balance. He just kept telling himself this while completing the final suture and knotted the thread.

When Lipton reached for the scissors he glanced up at Speirs; he looked detached, eyes focusing on nothing again. Lazily he blinked before their eyes met, this time Lipton wasn't so quick to look away. "Just checking," he explained, searching that empty stare for the truth. Not that it felt hopeless, he simply couldn't understand what he was seeing there yet. Lipton turned and clipped the excess thread away.

Speirs seemed to silently considered this, bringing the bottle to his mouth while Lipton used a face towel to clean away any blood left behind on his stomach. "Any sort of pain killers in that aid kit?"

"No," Lipton said flatly. He allowed Speirs to take a sip before swiping the bottle away from him. "And no more of this, you've lost enough blood already."

Speirs didn't argue with him, though he tensed like he wanted to. He fumbled uncomfortably to retrieve a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his pocket instead. The pack was heavily dented in areas, the cigarette he slipped between his lips was no better. Lipton didn't mind. He removed his bloodied glove and placed the needle into the lid of disinfectant. Speirs remained quiet until Lipton removed the gauze for the kit. 

"I'll get it later," Speirs said, taking the gauze from Lipton's grasp. He set it down on the sofa next to himself. "Worry about your neck."

Resentfully Lipton stood up, watching Speirs pull a drag from his smoke. He looked like shit. Slumped tirelessly on the sofa, a shine to his bare skin from sweat. His hand shook as he lowered it to the armrest. Despite the sutured injury carved into his stomach, it was Speirs' face that he couldn't stand to look at. 

Speirs looked this way because he put him here.

There was one unused face towel left, Lipton brought it with him to the restroom and gave it a good soak in hot water. He walked back out with it pressed firmly to his neck and sat at the desk. He angled the chair so he could face Speirs while he waited for the dried blood to get loosened. 

His thoughts scattered. The longer they spent in suspended silence the more Lipton felt caged in his own mind. Ideas and facts colliding with one another but never working together. 

"I don't find your reaction inappropriate," Speirs mentioned before too long. Lipton didn't understand the already uncharacteristic tone. Speirs had spoken quietly, there was nothing bitter about it. When he snapped free of his intrusive thoughts Speirs was already watching him. Perhaps waiting. "From what I know, anyone would have wanted to do the same. You just had the means and experience to do so effectively."

Lipton kept an eye on him, applying more pressure to his neck. "What is it you think you know?"

"Enough," it took Speirs a moment to collect himself before he continued. "Enough to have gotten by."

"Enough?" Lipton implored. "Because what I know is that I've been following a shit trail that leads right to you, regardless of how far through the cracks you think you've slipped." 

"I'm aware."

"You said you didn't kill her; you're going to have to give me more to bite on than that."

"Where do you want me to start?"

"The beginning," Lipton turned to face the mirror over the desk, wiping clear as much of the resaturated blood. It stung, to say the least. The way certain traces had adhered combined with the towel tearing them away from his mutilated skin. "When did you leave New York?"

"About five years ago," Speirs said through an exhale of smoke. 

Lipton considered this; the timeline does correlate. He wasn't sure if Speirs knew that he's been speculated of more than just last year's event, and even then it wasn't just Speirs at the center of it all. There was a bigger picture. No one Lipton had ever spoken to all those years ago seemed to know anything concrete, Speirs had vanished. No family, no friends, no more crimes of any kind. There simply weren't anymore leads. Before long he had to let it go.

"Keep talking," Lipton urged. He reached for the bottle of whiskey he'd set down on the floor, finding himself thankful for deciding to stop at a liquor store earlier. He stood up after he felt the liquid warm his throat. "I'm listening," he said, making his way back to the restroom. He needed a brighter view of his neck. "Why here?"

Upon inspection, the depth of the laceration was worst nearest his throat. He couldn't bring himself to go through with leaving Speirs unattended for too long, it wouldn't be reasonable. Not that much has been. Lipton soaked and wrung the thin towel once more, then he twisted off the cap to the disinfectant. There wasn't much liquid remaining; he soddened the towel with what was left and patted down the afflicted area. 

Speirs' voice carried through to the restroom. "I needed a fresh start, this seemed like a fine place to do so."

 _Here?_ Surely there was a greater reason, Lipton thought. He decided he would press for details at a later time. Speirs was speaking vaguely, and Lipton was uncertain how much more he'd be able to get him to reveal tonight. With his current impasse it didn't seem rational to be too expectant.

Lipton washed his hands, then checked to make certain no particles from the towel or otherwise had been wedged into the wound. After a brief examination in the mirror, he returned to the main room. "How do you know about Renee?"

"Aside from the news? From you."

"Elaborate."

"I've returned to New York from time to time. About a year ago was my last visit," Speirs lapsed, putting out his finished cigarette between the tips of his fingers. "—After I'd read news of an officer being killed; another critically wounded from explosives at my former address."

Lipton stood near the sofa, cutting himself a piece of thread. He was under Speirs' scrutinizing gaze while he threaded the needle. He felt that Speirs was regarding him intently, probably seeking a reaction. Not that Lipton gave him any. He sat himself down on the edge of the desk and leaned in towards the mirror, anticipating the discomfort. "Go on."

"Your names and faces had been front page, with those I could trace your history. I'd seen you at my old apartment, and considering your tie to Renee it wasn't difficult to establish your role in the investigation," Speirs concluded, the final words escaping him through clenched teeth. 

Lipton saw his reflection in the mirror; he had slumped slightly into the sofa more, he seemed distraught while trying to find a place to rest his hands. Speirs dragged the tips of his fingers above his stab wound for a moment, as if gauging the sensitivity surrounding it. Lipton said nothing. He held the needle point to his skin instead, attempting to embrace the feeling as he pulled the thread through.

What Lipton craved details on was the matter of Speirs' former residence; five years spent making sure that the apartment appeared lived in while he'd been long gone. It was a plausible tactic for a man who wanted to create a dead end of himself.

"That photograph you carry was from my apartment," Speirs stated. "How much survived the fire?"

"Very little," he replied between stitches. Lipton continued to observe him through the mirror, partially to keep an eye on him. Speirs had started pulling apart the gauze, estimating how much he required. He was efficient in putting a makeshift bandage together for himself. None of this was a first for Speirs, he reasoned. In the end he didn't really need any of the help Lipton had offered.

The more he mulled the idea over, Lipton was surprised Speirs hasn't been more resistant. 

He had so many questions and concerns, and one final stitch to suffice. Lipton completed mending his wound while Speirs adjusted himself into his. He had been curious about the photograph, mostly the whereabouts it was captured. It was impossible to tell with the damage, and it certainly was just a small portion of the image. Speirs was much younger then, that he could gather. 

When Lipton walked the few steps over to stand in front of Speirs, that overwhelming disorientation consumed him again. He reached for the scissors next to him on the sofa and clipped the excess thread away, disregarding the idea of applying any sort of bandage. Speirs looked as if on the verge of passing out, like he was making a conscious effort to keep his eyes from falling shut. His eyelids would flutter some, close momentarily before the torment in his gut would wrench him aware. 

"I don't know what the hell to do with you," Lipton admitted. The notion of handcuffs at this point seemed utterly cruel, but he couldn't leave the option crossed out. It wouldn't matter how much exhaustion or pain he was experiencing now if throughout the night Speirs decided he was finished with him. 

"What would you normally do?" Speirs looked up at him while he asked, the cigarette butt he's kept tucked away in his hand slipped to the floor. He didn't seem to notice.

"I've never been in water this deep," his eyes roamed the room. Perhaps now that he's had a chance to start analyzing the disorder between them, Lipton felt foul just considering the viable option he recognized earlier. He would have to, he's been after Speirs for far too long not to. When his gaze settled back on Speirs, he had to swallow back the coldness he felt. "And it's a fact I need you, but I can't trust you."

"I don't expect you to," Speirs conceded. 

Lipton grabbed his handcuffs from the bottom drawer of the desk then, he avoided his gun and the knife; mostly for his own sake. Speirs would be fine, he didn't need to know. Lipton reached for his sweater perched on the back of the chair and tossed it to Speirs' lap. "Then you understand."

If Speirs was at all concerned, he did nothing to portray it. He slipped on the unfamiliar turtleneck, careful to mind his stomach. Standing was different. He used the armrest for leverage and it required him a moment to find a sustainable balance enough to let go.

Lipton didn't assist him, he simply waited.

"Why did you approach me in the street?" He inquired further, reaching out for Speirs' wrist and locking the metal uncomfortably secure around it. Lipton kept both of his hands firmly around his cuffed wrist for a moment. "Why the risk?" 

Speirs complied, his thumb twitched involuntarily again. He remained still otherwise, watching Lipton haphazardly. "It seemed like the only risk worth taking. I've built a life here, I'm not willing to give that up." 

Lipton directed him around then, urging Speirs towards the bed from behind. He kept his grip on Speirs' shoulder as they walked the few steps, he didn't yet let go of the man's restrained wrist. There was no resistance. Speirs accepted the nudge to be seated on the edge of the bed; Lipton pulling his hand towards the bed's headboard frame. The railing was sturdy metal without any breaks or gaps.

There was a wave of melancholy Lipton recognized as he turned to walk away, leaving Speirs on the corner of the bed to his own devices. He bottled that up too. Nothing ever started out pretty, he never realized he'd be capable of traveling down a path such as this. Speirs must understand what this is, how much he's asking of him. The risk they were taking to chance an allegiance as unsound as this.

Lipton went to shut off the restroom light. The hue provided an unsettling atmosphere to overlap the turning point. He didn't realize how deeply he craved the dark until the light disappeared. This place felt more calm then; the lamp on the desk was a subtle reminder enough. He'd leave it on. 

The contents from the aid kit and bloodied towels Lipton discarded onto the desk. They could be taken care of in the morning. He considered having a shower; both Speirs' and his own blood were over him, he hadn't changed into a clean shirt yet. Mindlessly he fingered his stitch work along his neck before taking to the sofa. 

Lipton listened to the rambunctious noise of metal graze against metal as Speirs slowly shifted to lay down. He imagined the searing pain such a motion would create; finally laying down, only to discover it felt like being torn open again. Speirs expected it, Lipton thought. Which was probably a reason why he refrained from laying down right away. He would find something to ease the pain tomorrow.

_Tomorrow._

It wasn't past midnight yet. Lipton was spent, he slouched lower into the sofa, using the armrest as a pillow. He had no plans for sleep.

"What happens tomorrow?" Speirs wondered, as if he'd just invaded Lipton's mind. His voice was heavy with exhaustion.

"That all depends on how we get through the night."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 08/10/16 I'm not abandoning this story, though I have started a Speirton western au and it's been eating up time. That, plus farm work and other 'life events + difficulties' have created a delay. I greatly appreciate the readers, comments and encouragements along the way. This will happen.


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